Page 17 of Level Up for Love

*I haven’t a clue.* A pause. *But I’ll know them when I see them.*

“You’re really selling this.”

But it’s Moss’s wide hazel eyes that capture Sindra’s gaze. “The enclave, Sindra.”

The enclave that sprawls along the base of the mountains—the place they have both called home for an entire decade now—sits right on the border of Moros. If the curse spreads, the enclave will be the first to suffer.

Never mind the enclave, though. Sindra has never been able to say no to those eyes.

“Fine,” she says with a sigh. “We’ll gather what supplies we need, and then we’ll—we’ll give it a go.”

*Come along, my dears. I will show you the way.*

Sindra and Moss don’t waste any time.

After gathering supplies and warning the enclave, they head straight for the border along a nearby merchant’s road. When they arrive the next morning at a gate tucked into the mountains, two guards turn them away. “There’s a sickness spreading,” the elf on the left warns, “and visitors are not allowed. It’s for your own good—trust us.”

*There must be another way,* Brightmorn whines in the back of Sindra’s head.

Despite her temptation to take the guard’s advice and turn around, the sword’s insistence and Moss’s concern for the enclave convince her to press steadily on. And so they circle back, Moss using her druidic magic to compel the trees to part and guide them along a path less traveled.

Without signs or guards to mark their journey, Sindra assumed it would be impossible to tell when they arrived in Moros. Instead, the transition between the two kingdoms is abrupt and frightening.

The first difference is the light. It was a clear morning when they found the gate and the guards, but violent storm clouds fill the sky as they pass through the mountains, thick and dark enough to ward off the sun. The world around Sindra and Moss dims to a rich purple dusk.

But it’s the plants that catch Moss’s attention. Nothing is green. The tall old pines thin in number until all that remain are leafless trees whose bark is gray and peeling, and the grass—where there is any—grows in brittle brown patches between the dark soil and the rocks. Immediately, Moss kneels and gently traces the drooping stem of a pale five-petaled wildflower. The flower perks up at her touch, as they always do, but the moment Moss removes her hand, it slumps toward the ground again.

Sindra nervously grips Brightmorn’s hilt where the blade hangs at her side. “How long has it been like this?” she thinks aloud. But the sword does not answer.

Brightmorn? she thinks. How long has Moros been so…dead? Are we still going the right way?

But the weapon remains silent.

“What the fuck?” I say. “What’s wrong with it?”

From across the table, Wesley steadily meets my gaze. “Brightmorn stops responding to you.”

I blink—hard. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs casually. “Sindra can no longer hear the blade’s voice in her head. It’s gone quiet.”

I stare at him for a long moment. “Does it still seem more powerful than my old weapon? Is it still magical?”

“Now that Sindra takes a long look at it…not really. It seems like any other sword. Some of its golden shine has faded.”

My jaw tightens.

“So you gave me a magic item that breaks as soon as the campaign actually starts,” I say flatly.

Mona leans forward slightly, her hands folded atop her character sheet. “Maybe it’s just an effect of the curse?” she says uncertainly, trying to break the sudden tension.

“Does Moss’s staff still work?” I ask.

I watch a muscle twitch in Wesley’s sharp jaw. “Moss’s staff is unaffected.”

I glance at Arthur, Colin, and Shay, whose expressions vary from uncomfortable to impassive. We haven’t even introduced their characters yet, but I’m not ready to let this go.

“Why is my sword the only thing that’s broken?” I press.